Dishonorable heroes
by The Crane
Summary: During the Dominion War there were great men.  And then there were these guys.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: Star Trek and all its various components are owned in full by Paramount.

CLAIMER: The ship was my design. Xia is my design... mostly. About half the senior staff is mine.

DISCLAIMER: The actual crew of the ship was thunk up by Kenn Sprinkle. However, not without *MY* help.

I would like to thank Katy Opatz for letting me bounce ideas (and other things) off of her.

Dishonorable Heroes

Part One

Brian Burke

The_

"Damn..."

Somewhere in space is a small shuttle. It floats through space on a specific course with no particular urgency. Its engines are only using about half their potential. The ash colored vessel has about the significance of a tire rolling off someone's truck. It rolls, but nobody seems to care.

"Worth it though!"

Inside the space-faring equivalent to a canoe is a single man. He wears a uniform of mostly black with grey shoulders and red shirt peeking out of his collar. Ordinarily, an enlisted man would have small pins in their collar. He does not. Ordinarily, an enlisted man would have a badge on his chest. He does not.

He grins as he thinks about what got him into this predicament. He has his boots up on the colored console, but it won't do anything. A static message reminds him endlessly that the controls are locked. He could hit every button on the counter, but not a one would work. There is a timer on the console that counts down from currently about four years.

His name is Brogan. I don't remember his first name, so I doubt anyone else will. The shuttle he is on is actually a flying prison cell. The controls have been locked to keep him on a predetermined course during his 'sentance.' The replicator has been set to only give out a ration twice a day at a specific time. The door to the cargo area has been locked. He has a weapon onboard, but it's locked up as well. The only condition that will open it is if the ship has been boarded. Brogan suspects that last part to be a lie-he'll probably die first.

If that were true, his flying 'prison' would be a flying 'coffin.' Which is actually preferred depends on the perspective.

He has been leaving many things about this to suspicion. The course being unalterable is rather solid. The weapon will likely never be used-or perhaps the battery has been drained completely. The controls have been thoroughly tested and known to be locked.

The timer? That's a big suspect. Considering how he got into this, he doubts that he'll be released in four years.

His cargo? He can't touch it so he wonders about what (if anything) is inside.

"She sure was cute though..."

6 weeks ago...

On a fine day, on a fine Starfleet Academy... Brogan found a cute cadet.

Things happened, and Brogan found himself in her quarters.

More things happened, and Brogan got caught with his pants down. Literally.

What the cute cadet forgot to mention was that her grandfather is an Admiral in Starfleet. He found him with his granddaughter and unleashed Hell.

And now...

The Admiral easily dropped his ass into a shuttle. This shuttle is preprogrammed to fly between two stations. No deviations. Automation will unload and reload the shuttle. He cannot exit for any reason.

~What if I gotta piss?~

The Admiral gave an evil sneer and promptly tossed him a bucket.

Until...

Brogan was sleeping in his seat with his feet planted up on the console. He was no doubt dreaming about the cute cadet again. Or one of a few other cute cadets.

Or maybe booze.

Or brawling.

To be honest, Brogan starts with one and ends up with all three at one point or another.

"Damn Admiral..." he grumbles. "Not a drop of liquor on this tin boat."

His snoozing is violently interupted when the entire 'tin boat' rocks enough to toss him out of his seat. The bucket lands on his hand with a THUD. "So glad I held it in..."

The boozing bastard stands up and looks out the window. As the ship corrects its course back to its destination, he sees what he flew into. "Shouldn't the system avoid stuff like this? Well... whatever."

The object is in fact a starship that his own 'tin boat' could dock inside of. Should the course ever take it that way...

"Damn..." he sighs. "They're fucked." The comment could actually be a compliment. The ship, a Nebula Class ship, has been blackened in many areas of the hull. A warp nacelle has been removed. Several chunks of the hull have been blasted off. The bridge is nothing but a smudge. Several fires burn and leave lines of smoke.

Over the past couple years, an outside force collectively known as the Dominion have been warring with the Federation and its tenuous allies. Everyone in the Alpha Quadrant is in danger from these monsters. They hail from the Gamma Quadrant which would normally takes hundreds of years to reach. But, a wormhole has given them expedient passage.

The wormhole has been guarded on this end for several years. But, as the Dominion grew stronger, the sentinel could no longer hold them back. Deep Space Nine and its crew were at the center of this resistance.

This ship is a Nebula Class. It is not meant for extended combat. It is designed for exploration and science. And the damage done to this one in particular should not be a surprise. "USS Cambridge," Brogan mutters. "Bad day for you..."

Days later, the shuttle's computer has landed itself at one of the two stations. Brogan, however, couldn't care less. He cannot greet the people that work here. He cannot help unload the cargo. He can't pop out for a sandwich.

He just sits with his feet up.

"My punishment is to be bored to death. Literally. I ain't shittin' you."

Regardless of whether anything was loaded, unloaded, or sprayed on the side of the shuttle, it takes off once more. "Oh yay. We're leaving."

Whether the station workers (if any) waved with one finger or five, the ship carries its 'cargo' and prisoner away from the complex.

As the little thing returns to the first station, Brogan notices something. "Flying crappile. Oh, the poor crew." He watches in somewhat amusement as the Nebula Class 'crappile' limps through space with all the speed of an earthworm.

Attention Shuttlecraft! We cannot maneuver away from you. You have to divert your course!

"Attention Shitpile! My controls are locked. I can't do anything!"

Well, I guess we have no alternative. We are taking you into our shuttlebay. We can shut down your shuttle from there.

Somehow, the shuttle has stopped inside the shuttlebay as planned. For the first time in weeks, Brogan leaves the cockpit of the shuttle. "Alright..." he groans. "To whom do I owe my freedom?"

A few officers have come to greet him. All of them are dirty and mildly bruised. "This is the USS Cambridge. Pleased to have you aboard."

Brogan grins just a bit. "Something is wrong with this picture." But, soon, his eyes grow wide with horrible thoughts. "THE Cambridge? Good lord! I was better off in the frickin' shuttle! Where's that phaser? I'm just going to do myself a favor..."

"What's your name?"

"Brogan."

"Brogan? First or last name?"

"Does it really matter?"

"No. I guess not. If you have nothing better to do, our ship could use a little tidying up."

"What's YOUR name?" Brogan asks.

"Mel Carstairs. Captain of this scrappile."

"Heh. You think it's scrap too?"

"Starfleet does. It's been decomissioned. Once we arrive at the junkyard, a ship will pick up the crew."

"You have to fly it there yourself?"

"Starfleet is spread a little thin because of the war. We should feel lucky we have any ride at all."

"Just fucking kill me now..." But he sighs and tries to not think about it. "Tell me you have booze."

-End One


	2. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: Star Trek and all its various components are owned in full by Paramount.

CLAIMER: The ship was my design. Xia is my design... mostly. About half the senior staff is mine.

DISCLAIMER: The actual crew of the ship was thunk up by Kenn Sprinkle. However, not without *MY* help.

Dishonorable Heroes

Part Two

Brian Burke

The_

A man stares out a grand window into the vastness of space. He can identify almost every star he sees. At the same time, it is unimportant to him. He stands with his hands behind his back while deep in thought. He wears a Starfleet unfiorm of the red variety. His pointed ears perk up a bit as he hears something odd. But, he doesn't respond to it. Strangely, he does not have the 'bowl-cut' hairstyle that his race is known for. He has hair down to his shoulders which is tied off at the end.

He is a Vulcan, one of the most respected races in the United Federation of Planets. They were the First Contact for Humans. For many years after, the Vulcans would watch over the Humans like a parent teaching its child to walk. Quite annoying, yet quite helpful in the long run.

Vulcans are well known for their logical attitudes. They are also known for looking down on the rest of the 'illogical' universe. They are also dedicated vegetarians, deviating only in the most extreme situations.

Yet, from one of his pockets, this one removes and bites off a piece of beef jerky. "Good stuff. They don't know what they're missing."

A starship passes by. "Nebula Class," he remarks. "USS Cambridge." He watches as the ship pulls into the starbase's main hatch. "Here to pick up replacement crew. Been in spacedock for two weeks doing repairs."

"Join us!" A man early in his career looks at the Vulcan with a rather optimistic appearance.

The Vulcan has been staring out the window, never changing from his position. He looks at this man, Mel Carstairs with a little speculation. He promptly slides his feet a few inches further away from him. The Captain walks forward, and he responds by sliding away again.

"You are Sepik, right?"

"I am. What of it?"

"I've seen your file. I know that you will be a great help to us. Logically-"

"Shut it with the 'logic' crap. Gives me hayfever."

"Seriously?"

"And you're a Captain? What are you? The next Kirk?"

"I am younger than most captains, but I've been put in command of the Nebula Class Starship USS Cambridge. I have the freedom of choosing my own crew. I want you on my roster!"

~ST~~EP~ Miraculously, Sepik finds himself a fair distance from the young Captain. All with a single sidestep. His hands remain behind his back. His view out the window. The Captain persists and pursues, yet Sepik keeps sliding away as such.

"You are awaiting assignment aren't you? Because nobody else wants you?"

~Step Step~ "I just haven't found the right one."

"Why? Going back to Vulcan?"

"Shut it, Junior. Or I'll mail you there third class."

"Do you like this station that much?"

There is a long silence, but no shuffling of feet. It is true that Sepik wants to get off the station and rejoin Starfleet. But...

"No, but not on your ship."

A week later...

"What the hell am I doing on this ship?" As soon as he asks, a panel explodes somewhere behind him. The ship rocks and rumbles as it is shot to pieces by enemy ships.

As the bridge slowly crumbles, Sepik frantically presses buttons to hold the ship together where he can. He relies on other crew to do the same. "Rerouting power to shields!"

Meanwhile, the Captain has collapsed in his chair. "We lost... again..."

The Cambridge retreats from battle while it still can. The enemy ships, realizing that it is leaving, fire a few extra shots at it. The paper-thin shields barely slow any of them down as they collide with the hull.

"What the hell am I doing here?" Sepic groans.

"What a flake..." Sepik grumbles as he thinks about his Captain.

The Cambridge was sent to the frontline to fight. Normally, the ship is used for exploration and science. While it can defend itself in a fight, it is not meant for war like some of the other classes.

In his quarters, he lies back on his bed while he considers the mess he's gotten himself into. "Captain's a joke," he grumbles. "Fell apart pretty quickly. Constant losses have shattered him."

Sepik is a Vulcan by genetics. But his emotional, illogical frame of mind is very unlike his kind. Normally, Vulcans are in complete control of their emotions and show little to nothing. To be honest, Vulcans have raging, violent emotions. Through meditation and focus, you get what you often see.

Sepik is, by all accounts, an outsider to his race.

Ten Years ago...

Sepik was a very different child. His parents thought him to be difficult while growing up. Sepik meditated like any other Vulcan child. He went to the same schools as any other Vulcan child. And yet, he acted very strangely.

While other children were always very calm and collect, Sepik would be more laid back. He still tried his best to fit in, though. He meditated dilligently to control his emotions like the others.

But, some unique spark in him would not deny his emotional state. He needed to have that grin on his face whereever he went. His parents thought nothing of it until he was older. At some point in a Vulcan's life, they will usually conform to the standards that Vulcan has for them.

And yet, he never did.

One day, his father walked with him to seek the root of his 'problem'. "My son," he said in his quiet, logical-to-a-fault tone. "Your behavior concerns me. No Vulcan has lived for so long without suppressing their emotions. Why do you not?"

"I don't want to! I have this burning desire to be free!"

"But your behavior is illogical. You will never fit into society as you are now. Your instructors tell me that you are not cooperating with your fellow students."

"If fitting in means being just another drone to send off like torpedoes, then I'd rather not. I see a sea of black bowl-cuts shuffling down the streets. I like the idea of one of them being different. Like a fine canvas of conformity and order... One orange dot will merit quite a bit of attention."

For a long moment, Sepik's father dreads that his son may dye his hair bright orange to express his point more clearly. "Illogical. That is not the way of our people. Our traditions, our values, our status... You cannot just throw all that away."

"It's not suicide."

"Sepik, why do you feel the need to do so? Logic and reason are all that you truly need. Emotion will cloud your judgement. Your potential will be limited. You will be a lesser man because of it. What would happen if your emotion turned to anger? Would you still take joy in destruction?"

"No, Father," he says. "But at the same time, I cannot rely solely on logic. I feel like a robot. A machine. Gives me a rash and hayfever!"

"Rash? You are physically ailed due to logic? Impossible."

"I was speaking metephorically."

"Evidence that your ways are difficult to comprehend. While you make humor of even our discussion, I cannot understand what you are thinking. We cannot communicate this way. Is that what you prefer?"

"No, Father."

"Son, there is a trial that I will send you on. When you have completed it, your decision will be official."

"What if I fail?" Sepik asks.

"There is no failing this trial. It is to cement your decision to live as you are, or embrace your true Vulcan heritage."

"And if I find that this is my true self?"

"As your father, I will have to accept your decision."

And now...

"I spent a week on the Vulcan Forge. I brought only what I could carry. And then..."

Sepik had returned to his parents after many days on the Forge. He was dirty, bloodied, parched, and bruised. He approached his parents and looked them in the eyes. He was 14 at the time. His parents were strict about logic, but he knew they loved him. He was difficult, but they never abandoned him.

His father is an instructor at the local academy. He had garnered respect in teaching his students both academics and discipline. Sepik would soon be of the age to be his student as well as his father. Yet, he learned much from him already.

His mother works as a medical technician. She treats the wounded and ill at the medical facility. She is respected as well for being quick witted with medicine as well as using a gentle touch to administer it.

Sepik returned to them and held out his hand. In it, a strip of jerky flapped around in the wind. "You should try this. It's delicious!"

"Sepik," his father says, "it is illogical for a Vulcan to eat meat. Only under extreme circumstances-"

"Like being out in the middle of nowhere for a week?"

His father sighs a bit. "Agreed. But, there is no further need for it. You are home."

"Think I'll keep it. Got a bunch more in my sack."

His parents welcome him in and note that Sepik has a new robe and sack that he did not have when he left. "What manner of creature did you sacrifice?"

"I don't know," Sepik replies. "It attacked me, and then I defended myself. One thing tumbled into another and I ended up with what you see. But, it was pretty big!"

"A Lamotcha?" his mother inquires concernedly. "Was that what attacked you?"

"I guess. It was a vicious beast! We actually tracked each other around for three days before I finally finished it off!"

"Son," his father says, "I am glad to see you safe. Even though we sent you to this trial, we were deeply concerned about you."

"Yeah. I know."

"We are still worried," his mother remarks. "Your actions are illogical."

"But," Sepik says, "this is who I am. I proved that."

Present day...

And that is how Sepik became an outcast from his race and his family. When the time was right, he left to join Starfleet. It was the only option he could think about. It got him off Vulcan and gave him the freedom to be himself.

His unique 'spark' lead his life in a equally unique direction.

"What am I doing on THIS ship? Do I have a death sentence? Am I a masochist?"

Last week

"Join us!"

While Sepik was side-stepping his way up and down the observation deck, the 'next Captain Kirk' was pursuing him with offers of comission. He had no wish to be a part of the perpetually crumbling USS Cambridge.

But...

While Sepik's view was glued to the stars and the passing ships... While his attention was focused on escaping 'Junior,' he did not expect something else to happen. There was little warning as something hard hit the back of his head. He stood in shock as his thoughts were rattled.

He looked down at his feet and finds a Starfleet boot sitting on its side. A female boot, in fact. His gaze inches up and finds a young woman with only one boot on her feet. The other foot slightly hangs at the height difference. His gaze continues to slide up and he finds the woman has a paternity uniform and a bit of a protruding belly. His gaze finally meets hers and a pair of crossed arms. Her forehead has some ridges, but she looks human otherwise.

"Sepik."

"B't'ra..." he says with a nervous chuckle. "Long time no see? Three months?"

"That's what the doctor says," she growls.

Sepik turns towards the Junior Captain of the Cambridge. "When do we leave? Now's good!"

-End Two


	3. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: Star Trek and all its various components are owned in full by Paramount.

CLAIMER: The ship was my design. Xia is my design... mostly. About half the senior staff is mine.

DISCLAIMER: The actual crew of the ship was thunk up by Kenn Sprinkle. However, not without *MY* help.

Dishonorable Heroes

Part Three

Brian Burke

The_

Normally, the ship is brightly lit and a finely oiled machine. Normally, consoles are not smoking from damage. Normally... Well, this is not a normal day. And this is not a normal ship having a normal day.

Down in the open spaces of Main Engineering, the lights are few and in between as many have burst during the recent battle. Many crewmembers carry palmlights or wrist mounted flashlights to illuminate their work. There are red emergency lights that glow, but there are not enough to properly light the area.

Smoke hisses out of various places as crew tries to contain the rising problems. Consoles steam out, wall panels shoot streams of gas. Even the warp core sizzles a little.

A crewman has been tapping away furiously on the console trying to improve the situation. But, as he cannot control the rising heat, he slams his hands on the panel. "Dammit!" He wipes his furrowed brow as he stares angrily at the console.

"Easy, man!" a slightly gritty voice offers. He walks up to him with his hands crossed behind his back. "You have to chill, dude." As he walks into the light, the crewman can see that he wears a typical engineering uniform, but he otherwise looks like a deserted islander. His hair, in particular, covers his face to nearly the end of his nose.

"Why aren't you working?" the crewman asks.

"Chill," he replies. "It's a machine, but it has AI. It's not as bright as you or I, but it still has intelligence. Give it love. Give it compassion. Read it a story before you sign off."

"WHAT? Are you serious?"

"Never." The strange engineer taps away at the console and gives the edge a loving caress. "Now, Computer," he says with a loving smile, "could you please reroute the cooling system from these decks?"

The crewman watches with a strange look upon his face as this one man did what he could not. And seemingly because he is 'nice' to the machine. "How did you do that?"

"I have patience in spades, man. We get our butt kicked about twice a month. Handy, wouldn't you say? Look, our Chief bit it during our last outing. We have to pull together and honor his memory."

"He's not dead!"

"What? Oh. Whoops."

"What is your name, crewman?"

"Call me Dude," the guy replies with a surfer's wave of a hand.

"And how did you get that uniform anyway?"

"Academy. Same as you."

"They let YOU in?"

"Whoa..." he groans. "Bad mojo to think less of others. Except the Dominion."

He looks at him again. "Why is that panel behind you still smoking?"

"Beats me?" he shrugs as he shuffles back into the darkness.

"Hey, it stopped..." he wonders. "Wait!"

Somewhere else, 'Dude' lies on an overhead beam obscured from sight. "Breaktime man," he says quietly. Inbetween his fingers is a rolled up piece of paper which smokes very slightly.

"Too much bad mojo..." he says to himself.

Several days pass.

There was an announcement overhead that Starfleet has decided to scrap the USS Cambridge. There are still many working systems on board. But, after the number of losses and the current extent of the damage...

The crew of this ship manage to patch things together long enough to at least it make it to the junkyard that they'll leave this ship. Many believe that the ship can be salvaged. But, Starfleet has made its decision. The reputation, the damage, and the newer models of ships all work against them.

The crew themselves will be sent to other ships needing support. Certain members of the crew have been scheduled to sit on a starbase until further notice. One Vulcan in particular groaned loudly at the thought of such a predicament. "Not again!"

The 'desert islander' was sent off to a Galaxy Class vessel since the technology was very similar to a Nebula Class vessel. NCC 71099-USS Challenger. He was pleased to continue to work. But...

"Lt. Commander... Dude?" the Captain asks. "First name... Surfer? Where are you from, crewman?"

"Small colony of Great Wave. Why?"

"Your uniform is dirty. Your hair is not according to protocol. And I heard reports from the Nebula that there is evidence of using an illegal substance."

"It's organic, man."

"That would be Sir, not 'man.' I cannot imagine how you've gotten this far in Starfleet like this."

"Hey... I just go with the flow-Sir. My last Captain, rest his soul-"

"He's not dead!"

"Oh? Whoops. Sorry-Sir."

"But... I've also reports of you performing miracles in Engineering. I don't know how, and I don't want to. But, we could use someone with a magic touch. Chief Engineer Burton will oversee your work. Keep your uniform clean, tie back your hair, and no substance abuse... and I'll overlook your past. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," he says.

Three weeks pass.

Lt. Commander Dude works on this fine Galaxy Class ship while shuffling to Starfleet's regulations. His uniform is always clean. His hair is tied back. He helps out with all of ship's repairs. He becomes the perfect Starfleet crewman.

And there are some that worry about that...

The USS Challenger was met with a squadron of Gem H'dar fighters. The repairs were not severe, but all engineering staff were to work until repairs were complete. Lt. Comm. Dude helped out as well, providing his typical advice about patience while fixing the ship with his own style.

But, while he was working on a wall panel that was damaged, it overloaded and seemingly vaporized the individual. The crew around him were shocked that he could be erased so easily.

There was skepticism as such a small explosion could do something so serious, so an investigation was launched. When a further inquiry was given, a small device of unknown origin was found. It was a small sphere that had been fried in the explosion.

"Captain, I believe that he jumped ship long before this happened. This was found," he notes as he hands it to him. "A holographic projector. It was hiding within 'Dude's' body. It created a replica of him to work on board."

"I never even noticed," the captain groans.

"Which tells of his capabilities."

The captain turns and looks out his ready room window. "Who the hell was that man?"

Out in the vastness of space, a man on a long stretch of metal flies with the stars zipping by. There is a glowing blue line along the side of the metal piece. It hums quietly in the void of space. The man wears a protective suit that covers his body completely. A phaser hangs from his side... just in case.

"Don't worry, Cambridge. I'm comin' back for ya." Dude rides the metal just like one would surf the seas. His legs are slightly bent and his arms are usually at his sides. A light flashes on his wrist and buzzes for a few seconds. "Guess they know. Ah, well."

-End Three


	4. Chapter 4

DISCLAIMER: Star Trek and all its various components are owned in full by Paramount.

CLAIMER: The ship was my design. Xia is my design... mostly. About half the senior staff is mine.

DISCLAIMER: The actual crew of the ship was thunk up by Kenn Sprinkle. However, not without *MY* help.

I would like to thank Katy Opatz for letting me bounce ideas (and other things) off of her.

Dishonorable Heroes

Part Four

Brian Burke

The_

"This court martial is now in order!"

The room has several people seated in various locations. Among them, three admirals sit in a row facing a large table. One of them is a female Human. One is a Vulcan male. The third is a male with light blue skin.

The table has three people behind it. One of them is a man with dark hair and has a defeated look on his face. Next to him is a young woman with long bright red hair and a scowl on her face. She has small ridges on either side of her eyes. The third looks to be a lawyer.

To one side of the room, there are two rows of seating with a rail around it. The chairs are all filled with officers of different divisions of the Starfleet uniform.

"Does the accused have anything to say before we begin?"

"Can I have a beer?" the redhead remarks.

Last Week

The USS Intrepid is the prototype ship from which the infamous USS Voyager was modeled after. It's a smaller ship, but still very impressive. One unique feature to its class is that the warp engines' 'wings' fold up from flat to 45 degrees when it goes to warp. It has been said that it increases efficiency of the engines. Also, its unique engines run 'cleaner' by not damaging subspace as was recently discovered by larger and older ships.

Recently, the USS Intrepid was sent on a scouting mission to investigate Dominion activity. A beautiful nebula was found to hold the ugly forces of Jem'Hadar. The gasses of the nebula provided natural cover from sensors and other prying eyes. The Dominion took the opportunity to produce a floating factory of weapons inside of it.

The Intrepid itself was too large to enter undetected. A shuttle was launched from the ship while it stayed on the dark side of a nearby planet. And then, all was quiet on the Intrepid until the shuttle returned. 'Get in, take a look, get out. No fireworks.'

Instead of a typical shuttle, the pilot asked to take something with a bit more 'kick' should something go awry. Something that was small, yet still had "the balls to get me out of there," as the pilot remarked. The red headed pilot asked for the captain's yacht- a special shuttle docked on the underside of the saucer. The 'Meggido' was granted begrudgingly.

She and the dark haired man took the tiny craft into the nebula to do their mission. The Intrepid stood by silently until their return. Radio silence was a must. Within only 30 minutes, the Meggido disappeared into the gaseous cloud in space.

Considering the size of the nebula, it would take several hours of careful searching before a confirmation could be made. Even as small a craft as it was, slow movements were still necessary to avoid detection. They didn't want the ship to cause too much of a stir that may be noticeable.

The gas was pretty dense and didn't allow sensors to work very well. However, some fine tuning allowed them to scan the nearby areas. They floated through the nebula, sometimes seeminly by inches, and kept looking.

They found something, though. There was a station floating inside. There were a few ships around it. Some coming. Some going.

"What has been that button you've been pushing?"

The red haired woman looked over to her co-pilot with a whimsical smile. "Nooooothing." And yet, every few minutes, she presses it again. "More nothing." Press. "And still more nothing."

The man gave her a speculative look before returning to sensor readings. "Why did you ask for the Meggido?"

"If shit hits the fan, we can get out faster than a normal shuttle. And we don't carry Runabouts."

"And?"

"And?" she replies.

"And?" he repeats.

"And... I can drop 'sweet nothings' with this thing."

"Sweet... Lt. Stryk'r! What did you do?"

"If you have your sensor readings, we should leave." Lt. Stryk'r looks nervously as several Jem'Hadar attack ships head towards their location. Sensors don't work, but the cloud is thin enough to see them coming. With the looming threat, she turns the Meggido around and flies away at high speed.

"Jem'Hadar ships are chasing us!" the man points out.

"Eh..." Stryk'r replies. She presses a big round red button on the control panel. "Hang on. This might suck."

Behind them, several explosions can be heard as various charges explode. One after another in a chain, these small explosions ignite pockets of the nebula and create larger explosions. Soon, chain reactions start detonating more and more pockets of gas. The Meggido runs straight back towards the Intrepid while flame and bombursts fill the area.

The small vessel pops out of the cloud while flames lick the sides of the hull. Despite a few dark spots on the shuttle, it looks relatively undamaged.

"Was that necessary?" he asks.

"No. But it was fun!"

"Yeah... We got six fighters on our tail. Is it still 'fun?' We're gonna die now!"

"We had sixTEEN on our tail in there. Right?"

"Um... yeah. But we don't have weapons on this thing! And your charges aren't as effective out here!"

As Stryk'r pilots the shuttle around enemy fire, she actually smiles and enjoys the thrill of being pursued. "No sense of adventure!"

"And from there, you flew past the Intrepid."

"I couldn't stop to dock," Stryk'r replies with a shrug. "Intrepid would've been easy target."

"So where IS the Meggido? The Intrepid eventually fought off the Jem'Hadar ships and you kept going. When they caught up with you, there was no Meggido. Where did you put it?"

"Can't remember!" she says with a smile. "It was so long ago..."

"IT WAS A WEEK AGO!"

"OH! I remember! I had to destroy it."

"What?"

"We had to shake the fighters. We got away long enough to beam off. Then, I sent the Meggido ahead. Jem'Hadar zipped right after it. Some ship... can't remember which... picked us up and dropped us back on the Intrepid."

"Who was the captain of that ship? What class was it?"

"Carstairs? No, that was one of the crew... Some old... ugly guy. Couldn't even read his own data pad. Ship was an older type. Like it'd been around for a hundred years."

The Vulcan admial pinches the bridge of his nose. "The only ship class that old is the Excelsior class. I think I know which ship picked you up."

The female admiral leans forward. "We'll take a moment to consider this."

A moment... turned into three days.

Lt. Stryk'r was given leniency because her actions destroyed a Dominion factory. But because she disobeyed orders for 'no fireworks,' and because she lost the Meggido in the process, she was demoted to Lt. Junior Grade and assigned to the USS Cambridge NCC 64046. She was to be a reserve pilot with limited access.

"And that's how you wound up here?" Sepik asks. Lt. JG Stryk'r relaxes on her couch while looking at a datapad in her hand. To one side is a bowl of crunchy snacks. Sepik eyes the bowl curiously as she has consumed one after another.

"Pretty much. Can't remember what happened to the other guy. Probably sent to a worse assignment." She takes a chip and crunches it between her teeth.

"There is no worse assignment..." Sepik groans.

"Rather be on a garbage scow?" she asks.

"This is one..." he groans under his breath. He looks at the bowl again. "What are those?" he asks.

"Twentieth century Earth snacks," she replies with a smile. "Why? Wanna good Lay?"

-End Four


	5. Chapter 5

DISCLAIMER: Star Trek and all its various components are owned in full by Paramount.

CLAIMER: The ship was my design. Xia is my design... mostly. About half the senior staff is mine.

DISCLAIMER: The actual crew of the ship was thunk up by Kenn Sprinkle. However, not without *MY* help.

I would like to thank Katy Opatz for letting me bounce ideas (and other things) off of her.

Dishonorable Heroes

Part Five

Brian Burke

The_

~Captain's Log. Stardate- Stardate... Computer? What's the date today? Wait-forget that. I don't fucking care. Oh! It's right here on the screen! Still don't care. Our ship, the USS Cambridge is flying towards its end. After several humiliating battles, Starfleet has decided that the ship will be scrapped until further notice. If, after the Dominion War, the ship is still salvagable, then it will be repaired and returned to service. But, with the Akira Class being stamped out in a hurry, resources can't be spared for this piece of crap.

~I was wondering how this all started. How I was put on such a strange road. Maybe I should start at the beginning...~

In the darkness of space, there was a sudden explosion of unparalleled size. No explosion would ever be able top that one. The ferocity and power of that one event would be legendary across the galaxy. It lit up the sky from here to eternity. It sent shockwaves to the outer edges of the universe. Its roar sounded through even the vacuum of space.

But.. maybe the Big Bang is too far back to go... Something more recent?

In the third grade, my lunch was stolen at least half the time. I learned that if I ate Klingon food every day, I would be fine. It was quite adventurous to eat lunch every day. But at least I was eating something... I almost started to like the taste of gagh.

In the seventh grade, I was run up the flagpole by my undershorts. A lot. My father gave me gravity spheres to keep in my pockets. If they tried it, they would be lifting something comparable in weight to a Bengal Tiger. As long as I held on to my balls. They were light to me, but created a graviton field.

During my highschool days, my older brother borrowed my car. He was in love with a cute Starfleet cadet and wanted to show her a good time in my pristinely restored vehicle. She was disturbed by his behavior. Said she never wanted to see him again. So, after she was home, my car... my restored beauty... my years-long project...

...was destroyed in a horrific accident. My brother survived just fine. While I watched the last several years burn, I thought back to all the love and work I had put into it. And now, it was just a grandiose firepit.

Whatever injuries he escaped after jumping out... I gave to him three fold. Even today, many years later, he still limps with his right leg. He cannot raise his left arm above his shoulder.

I 'voluntarily' joined Starfleet. The incident followed me wherever I went. Without a friend and without a girl, I buried myself in my studies. They say James Kirk was a 'stack of books with legs.' I suppose I wasn't too far different. I studied. I studied. I studied. I sociallized on sparse occassions.

Four years pass, and I graduated Starfleet Academy. Some time later, I finished Starfleet Command School. I hardly knew everything. But my career had begun...

My brother turned into a career felon. He had spent his life in and out of prison like it was a hotel. Eventually, he left Earth and was thrown into all new prisons. But, he's always been able to weasel himself into a lesser sentance.

I spent 10 years on 3 different ships. I served on a Miranda Class ship. It's been in service for probably 100 years. I don't know if it was luck that kept this thing in space, or just an incredibly good design team... I was a backup helm control. I took over for the real helm officer when in need and did my share of away missions.

I served on an Ambassador Class ship for some time. That ship's class has only been around for about 30 years or so... I think. Good sturdy ship, though. Looks like the Galaxy Class-if you squint. I was backup helm again. I'd also be a backup transporter controller.

And yet, I was still inside my own little shell. Ten years serving in Starfleet, and I was no better than I was in high school. There wasn't the random bullying like there was back then. But, I never spoke up. I followed my orders. I served my shift, and retreated to my quarters. I returned to duty, and then retreated again.

And then...

After severarl years, I became the helm officer (not the backup!) of the USS Cambridge. Lt. Junior Grade Mel Carstairs was doing something! Despite my introverted self, I apparently impressed someone somewhere of my ability.

Somedays, though, I wonder if I got here by pissing someone off.

It was by this time that I had started to hear more and more about the Dominion. The invasion from the Gamma Quadrant had begun. Ships from all over the Alpha Quadrant were being redirected on a regular basis. They were told to stay away from this area. They were told to investigate this area.

I was under the command of Captain Jackson. He was a grumpy old captain who could rarely read the data padd in front of him. He wasn't well liked by his crew, but he seemed to keep Starfleet Command's favor. Yet, at times, he had no idea what was going on around him. His favorite pasttime, it seemed, was to make sure everyone was working hard and not socializing unncessarily.

We were pulled into battle with Jem'Hadar ships. We were taking hits, but also took out a few of their fighters in the process. Our Nebula Class ship, though, was far too big to maneuver well enough to fight these small things.

Captain Jackson sent me off to fix something two decks down. I don't remember what it was, but he knew I could repair it without sending in repair teams from several decks down. I assured him that I could do it and went down to work. A backup took my place and I felt a strange thing from the moment.

I was working on deck three with a wall panel, doing something to strengthen the shields so we could make an escape. Our battle wasn't going well, and Captain Jackson called a retreat. Even though I was good with flight controls, I was still alright with repairs.

I heard a loud noise from above. The ship rocked to either side and tossed me to the floor. I looked up and saw that the ceiling above me was glowing orange and green. It was as bright as the hallway lights, but would quickly dim.

I finished my project and zipped up to the bridge. But, the lift wouldn't take me there. It told me that the lift for that deck had been destroyed. I managed to get up to deck two. But, I wish I hadn't.

The bridge had been destroyed. Everyone that was there had been instantly killed. The control panels that had broken free floated in space. There was a forcefield around the remains of the bridge. But, the gravity plating underneath had failed. What was left of the bridge crew floated with the debris.

Through sheer luck, I had survived. I didn't want to enter that bridge right then. I knew it was too painful. I knew I had to get this ship to safety. I went down to Engineering and got the ship out of there.

The Jem'Hadar ships that remained were fought off by a timely arrival of the Defiant-Deep Space Nine's ace in the hole. They escorted us back to spacedock for repairs and made sure nothing else happened along the way.

The casualties were removed and buried. I cried for days at the thought alone. My heart sank every time they took someone away. Captain Jackson. The first officer. Science officer. Tactical officer. They had all perished in one horrific attack.

And I had to send a message to Starfleet Command informing of this situation.

Admiral Jellico was on the other end. He and I have met a few times before. He wasn't pleased with how things turned out. But, the Jem'Hadar are ruthless bastards. They would take a shot like that. During the trip away from the battlefield, Worf on the Defiant had told me that the Jem'Hadar are 'without honor'. They take any and all attempts to destroy a ship.

Admiral Jellico didn't like what he had to do next. As the only surviving member of the bridge crew, he begrudgingly... stutteringly... fearfully... disdainfully... battlefield promoted me to "C-C-C-C-Cap-tain." I thought he had swallowed a whole family of toads before saying that. "Sir," I said, "you look as white as the Borg!"

"I will be watching you, Carstairs," he said. "Very carefully, in fact. Your Chief Medical Officer and your Chief Engineer both outrank you. But, both of them have turned down the position. Only by that strand of luck are you in the Captain's chair. Do NOT disappoint me!" With that, he ended the transmission.

And now, I'm a Starfleet Captain. Although, I don't think my father would approve as to how I got to this position. I certainly don't. My heart aches whenever someone calls me 'Captain.' But, I have to move forward.

The ship was repaired. It took two weeks to do this, but we were underway again. The memory of those before me inspired me to go above and beyond my best.

I needed a crew...

"End Captain's Log."

-End Five


	6. Chapter 6

DISCLAIMER: Star Trek and all its various components are owned in full by Paramount.

CLAIMER: The ship was my design. Xia is my design... mostly. About half the senior staff is mine.

I would like to thank Katy Opatz for letting me bounce ideas (and other things) off of her.

Oh Captain

Part One

Brian Burke

The_

Lt. Junior Grade Mel Carstairs, 10 years out of Starfleet Academy, has taken command of the USS Cambridge. In a horrible attack where the bridge of the ship was effectively vaporized, Carstairs was left as sole bridge crew left due to a extremely hard hand of fate. Through a stroke of luck, the USS Defiant came to fight off the remaining Jem'Hadar ships so that the Cambridge could escape.

Immediately, Carstairs ran down to Main Engineering to report on what had happened. He told of the horrifying sight he saw on what was left of the bridge. The crew around him were badly shaken by this turn of events. Carstairs himself then used the Engineering consoles to turn the ship around and escape.

The Cambridge was quickly underway on a route back to the nearest starbase. And, with that, Carstairs retreated to his quarters. After the mental shock of the past hour, he needed to rest.

The engineers down below worked dilligently to repair what damage they needed to. The Chief Engineer recommended that Carstairs inform Starfleet Command what had happened. The Chief Medical Officer would be occupied for quite some time dealing with injuries. An ensign would stay to control the ship until they reached their destination.

Carstairs returned to his quarters on Deck 3. He walked with his head drooped as he made his way through the corridors. His mind was swimming with images of the bridge being destroyed and its crew fried.

There were emergency crews running down the corridor as he walked with a morose pace. Captain Jackson had brought him onto the ship four years ago. Three years later, he put him in as the primary helm officer. Commmander Burke, the First Officer, had known him while he was on the Ambassador Class ship. He recommended that Carstairs be brought onboard.

Carstairs reached his quarters while reminiscing. He sighed at the terrible turn of events before he entered the room. The doors slid open with the typical SWOOSH sound. He took a single step inside when he saw the terrible state of things. An emergency forcefield shimmered across the far wall. In fact, there wasn't much of a wall remaining. One of the Jem'Hadar's attacks ripped a hole in the side of the ship and his room. Perhaps it was from the same attack that destroyed the bridge.

"Computer?" he asks just before the usual chime echoes in the 'room.' "Is there any empty quarters? That are not destroyed?"

~Empty Quarters on Deck 8.~

"No," he groans. "Both the First Officer and Captain's quarters are there. Anywhere else?"

~Deck 17 has joint quarters. #208 is currently open.~

"Thank you. Please register me for that room."

~Acknowledged.~

Deck 17. One deck below the battle bridge. The crew quarters were a joint one. Two beds, one living area. Chairs and table were standard issue, as well as a replicator and a sonic shower. And a small screen for communication or otherwise.

"Computer. I need a channel open to Admiral Jellico at Starfleet Command."

~One moment.~

An hour passes between Lt. JG Mel Carstairs and Admiral Jellico. It was a horrible incident that happened to the Cambridge. The Jem'Hadar fired upon the bridge as a merciless blow. Their weapons are strong enough to penetrate Starfleet shielding many times.

Jellico discussed with Carstairs about possibilities. The thought of what Jellico had to do was not an easy one. And yet, it was in the realm of possibility. It wasn't a choice to be taken lightly by either side. It hardly seemed logical, but it was moderately fair.

Admiral Jellico warned him that this decision is only temporary. In time, something more concrete will come about. But, currently, this will have to do.

Another hour had passed since Carstairs completed the communication. He sat on the end of the chair with his hands cupping his jaw. His eyes were dilated. The admiral had done something he never thought possible. As far as he knew, this sort of thing hasn't happened before.

He was in shock of what had transpired. The intial attack was shocking. The admiral's decision was another. And, yet, there was a particular edge to it. ~This is only a temporary solution. I'll be watching you. If you screw up, I'll pull you out.~

"Computer," he said. "Inform the ship's doctor and the Chief Engineer to meet in Main Engineering. And I need something replicated."

10 minutes pass and the specified officers are standing before him in said meeting place. He looks at the doctor and then at the engineer. Both Human men. "We three are the surviving senior staff of this ship. The Jem'Hadar's unmerciful ways have seen to that. Admiral Jellico has decided that one of us three is to be Captain. He suggested that I take the role, seeing as though I am the last bridge officer. That is only if neither of you want it."

The Chief Engineer cleared his throat for a moment. "I would be lying if I said I didn't want it. But, I actually know little about command. I know a lot more about keeping a starship in one piece than I do managing the whole crew. I have enough trouble with these yahoos."

"Doctor?"

"Doctors are not well known for being captains," he replies.

Carstairs sighs as he unfurls his hands. In his grasp are three pips for his collar. "I guess I drew the right straw," he says. He rolls the gold micro-buttons into one hand and uses the other to remove the black-filled one from his collar. He tosses it aimlessly and attaches the other three easily.

In about a minute, he goes up four ranks from a Junior Grade Lieutenant to a Captain. Most people spend 10-15 years in that kind of a rise. Sadly, most people are farther along than a Lt. JG in the same 10 years he has already spent in Starfleet. His slow advance through the rank suddenly got a turbo boost.

"I would ask that nobody applaud me. This is not what I wanted. This battlefield promotion aches my heart. Let us not praise the promotion, but mourn our comrades that should have earned it."

"Your orders... Captain?" the engineer asks.

"Just get us to the starbase. Tape the ship together until we dock there. I need to go over a few things. I'll be in my quarters on Deck 17."

"Aye...Sir," he replies.

Carstairs looks at him for a moment. He doesn't say anything, but his gaze wonders about that short pause.

"Forgive me, Sir," he replies. "Your sudden rise through the ranks is... a little strange."

"Oh," he comments. "Try to think about MY perspective. You think you all are unsettled? You have no idea the shoes I'm in..."

And so, Captain Carstairs returns to his room to look over a library of information that he will need. He looks over everything a Starfleet Captain needs to do. Everything from managing the crew to etiquette at diplomatic functions.

The crew is trained to respect the position Starfleet has put him in. They are required to follow his orders. But, how much respect can he himself have? How happy will they be with this captain that is so young and inexperienced? There are crew aboard higher in rank, and yet he was chosen.

"Maybe this is some sort of punishment," he mutters to himself. "Jellico was quite a stickler for rules and regulations, though. He might yank me off as soon as we dock. They're not going to follow me. Are they?"

One thing is clear, though. "First thing tomorrow..." he grumbles, "I need to find people for my senior staff..."

Sleep does not come easy for him. The new captain tosses and turns as he tries to rest. Fear tells him to keep a phaser under his pillow. He keeps his comm-badge nearby at all times as per protocol. Of all members of the crew, he would need it on him the most.

He has thought several times about distancing himself from his badge. But, a responsible officer, captain or not, will keep in contact at all times. The responsibility that he must endure has grown exponentially in one day. His mind races in all different directions on what he must do.

Yet, hiding in his quarters seems the most comfortable thing to do.

The Bridge. Center of operations for the entire ship. Top deck of the vessel. The brains of the beast.

Carstairs looks out from his chair and sees his own bridge crew operating the controls. Science officer on his left. First Officer to his right. Tactical above and behind him. Communications in the front and left.

But, all these faces are clouded. Who are they? Why can't he see or remember their faces?

He looks to the Helm and finds the seat... empty. Who's flying the ship? Was he supposed to? Why was his station empty?

The ship is suddenly rocked to either side by an explosion. ~Carstairs!~ He scrambles to the Helm and presses buttons, but nothing seems to help. ~Carstairs!~ He looks up at the screen and finds three Jem'Hadar ships firing on the ship. ~CARSTAIRS!~

"NOOOOO!" THUD

"Get your ass out of bed!" A bald, blue skinned woman casts a shadow over him as he slowly crawled back to consciousness.

"Ensign Z'ntara?" he asked the blue skinned woman. "I know Bolian innards are vile and corrosive. But, do you have to show it on the outside too?"

For such a comment, she kicks him in the posterior. "What do you think you're doing here anyway?"

Carstairs looks around him for a moment and finds the quarters that he found for himself the day before. He ducks as he removes himself from the bunk-style bed. He stands up and rubs his face with his hands for a minute. His red shirt and his jacket had both been tossed off before he fell asleep.

"What are you doing in my quarters?" a perturbed woman asks. He turns to see the Bolian girl staring at him angrily.

He starts to rub the bump on his head. "Mine got fried yesterday. Computer told me there was an opening. Funny. I thought joint quarters were assigned to same-sex crewman."

"I heard that it happens on occassion. In an emergency, the computer will arrange quarters. It doesn't pay attention to gender."

"You see?" Carstairs grins. "I'm innocent. Computer glitch." Carstairs reaches for his red shirt and quickly dons it.

"Carstairs, what do you think you're doing?"

"Getting dressed? Getting out of YOUR quarters. Gonna go find-"

"NO!" she snaps. She grabs his shirt near the collar where four small pips are aligned in a row. "Why are you wearing captain rank pips?"

"Because... I can?"

"What is wrong with you? Our captain died! What kind of sick joke are you playing? YOU of all people can't be captain!"

"Not my idea," he groans. "Admiral Jellico. This all went down yesterday."

"Right..."

"Ask the computer!"

With a slight turn of her head, "Computer?" Z'ntara asks, followed by the signaling chime. "What rank is Mel Carstairs?"

~Mel Carstairs currently holds the rank of captain as of yesterday at 1736 hours.~

Z'ntara looks at him with something of an aghast expression. The computer cannot lie about this. There isn't anyone onboard that could or would hack the computer to allow something like this. For all rights, he IS the captain. When she realizes this, she quickly releases his uniform.

Mel crosses his arms and gives something of a smirk.

Ensign Z'ntara suddenly snaps to attention with the realization of what she's been saying for the past few minutes. "Forgive me, Sir! I wasn't informed!"

"At ease, ensign, before you sprain something." Captain Carstairs grabs his black jacket with gray shoulders that is standard among the crew. "I'll find myself some new quarters later. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"No problem, Sir. If it pleases you, I'll be happy to share mine. I was sharing with someone, but she transferred off the ship a few days ago."

"I'll take it under advisement," he grins.

"Okay..." he grumbles as he walks down the corridor. "She's an ass-kisser. Gotta stay away from that one."

Carstairs entered Main Engineering and watched as the crew milled about. His thoughts, though, were on what he should do. What he should say. He watched for a few minutes as they worked the consoles to no end. Their chatter was about the recent catastrophe on the bridge. They were visibly shaken by the loss, and were unsure of what would be happening next.

"Carstairs?" The Chief Engineer asks. A bigger, more seasoned man than the small Carstairs. "I"m sorry-Captain."

"Don't worry about it," he says quietly. "I'm not yet comfortable with the role. Sure you don't want it?"

"What's done is done," he replies. He promptly hands Carstairs with a PADD with various schedules on it. Most are timeframes for the repairs. "Aside from the bridge, we should be done in 36 hours."

"Yes," Carstairs replies as he looks it over. "The whole bridge module is going to have to be replaced at Starbase. I know the usual rule of Captain is to pressure the timeline into something smaller... But, I don't really feel like it right now. Just have our repairs done by the the time we dock."

"Aye, Captain," he replies.

Carstairs has situated himself on the Battle Bridge. Two crewman sit in front of him at the two forward consoles. One man. One woman. One gold. One red. He has been sitting on the bridge for a few hours as he considers words to pass along to the crew. He needs to be straightforward. He needs to let his crew hear some words.

This is your Captain speaking. As you know, at 1544 hours yesterday, the bridge was destroyed and most of the senior staff was killed. The Chief Medical Officer, Chief Engineer, and I-Mel Carstairs were the only remaining senior staff. Captain Matthew Jackson, First Officer Brian Burke, Tactical Officer V'par, and Science officer Maria Nelson were killed in the attack. At 1736 hours, I spoke to Starfleet Command, and I was given a battlefield promotion to Captain. I suspect that there are those on this ship that would disapprove of such a thing. Regardless, I will do everything in my power to fulfill the role that fate has thrust upon me. There will be a memorial service at 1900 hours in Ten-Forward. I will be filling the positions as soon as possible. I do not do so out of expediency, but to move forward and linger on foul memories. I do not hope to be a great man. Just a man. A man that is filling a duty. I do not take pride in the way I was promoted. But, I will do my very best. Captain Carstairs out.

"Ugh," Carstairs groans. "That was a horrible speech."

"No, Captain," the lady in red ahead of him remarks. She turns in her chair to speak. "That was not. We have all been shaken. Any words of sympathy and support will go a long way. You'll see."

"I suppose you're right," he admits. He narrows his gaze a little. "Don't you need permission to speak like that to a captain?"

She quickly snaps around in her chair. "Forgive me, Sir! I lost my head for a second."

"Don't worry about it." But, the short conversation between them has shown a crack he was leary of. His suspcion that it is hard to see him as Captain has been shown some light. If he is to be revered as Captain, he must do something to make them remember at first sight.

At 1900 hours, as promised, there was a memorial service to the fallen crew members. There were four coffins in the room. Each had a United Federation of Planets flag draped over it. All four were in a row. Each had their name and rank engraved into the head of the coffin.

Carstairs, newly appointed as Captain, stood and gazed at the four. The rest of the crew milled about and talked about the fallen. Carstairs, having a weak social life, could not think of anything to say to anyone. At such a confusing time like this, there is no change.

But, still...

"Captain Jackson," Carstairs remarks, "was a bit of a tyrant, don't you think? Always buzzing around the ship, making sure we were working. Making sure we weren't socializing. Honestly, I thought he was a pain in the ass. But, you know? I realized what he was doing. Everything he did was to make this bird more efficient. He worked tirelessly to make this the best ship he could." He grins for a second. "He succeeded. But, he was still a pain in the ass."

"You would be too," the Chief Engineer remarks, "if you were married three times."

Carstairs looks at the next coffin. "Commander Burke dragged me onto this ship. When I first got here, I thought: 'Just another assignment.' We had worked together on my last post, and he wanted me here. Thought it would loosen me up. He was my closest friend on this ship... I tried my best to meet his expectations. I did everything I could for this ship and for him."

"He took me fishing a few times," the Chief Medical Officer remarks. "Once on the holodeck, but a few times on Earth. Lake Mille Lacs was one of his favorite places to go."

"V'Par was from Vulcan. I'm sure many would say that is enough of an explanation. She would tell me my responses were too slow. I flew the shuttles too fast. I flew them too slow. One day, I programmed the computer to jump from warp four to warp two. And then back. And back again. She gave me that Vulcan look of disapproval and I stopped doing it. But, deep down I knew she was holding onto her principles. I commend her for that."

Carstairs looks at the final coffin. "Maria Nelson. Science officer. I asked her out and she slapped me. Said I was a fool who knew nothing about science-and henceforth nothing about her. Science was her life. She wanted to study anything we stopped in front of. If it wasn't for this damned war, she'd have all the chances in the world. I was hoping it would end soon so she could go exploring. She was on a SCIENCE vessel, right? I'm going to miss them all."

Two days later, the USS Cambridge docked at Starbase 375. Base crews were to remove the bodies of the fallen crew, remove their personal belongings, and fit the ship with a new bridge module. Other damage was also repaired as needed. Captain Carstairs was informed that the bridge module needed for the Cambridge would take a few days to arrive. In the meantime...

Carstairs sits in an office on the starbase with several PADDs in front of him. One such informational piece is in one hand while a cup of coffee is in the other. His face wrinkles a bit from frustration. "Damn."

There is a short chime at the door to signify someone on the other side. "It's open," he shouts.

With a typical and forgettable 'swoosh,' the door opens. Carstairs gives a look to who it is and quickly jumps to attention. "Admiral Jellico!" he spouts.

An older man walks in with an admiral's uniform on. It's the typical Starfleet uniform, but with a belt and oversized buckle. There's also a line down the front and admiral's pips on either side of the collar. "So, you're the new captain of the USS Cambridge? Not as tall as I would have thought."

Carstairs continues to stand at attention as Jellico walks up to him. "I apologize, Sir." He watches as the admiral looks over him closely. He knows that Jellico is a man of untmost policy. The slightest error could be disatrous for Carstairs' career.

"At ease, Carstairs. I came out here to meet you in person. The Cambridge has been through a horrible ordeal. Any other ship would've been destroyed by the Jem'Hadar. But, somehow you miraculously survived long enough to get your ship to safety."

"Yes, Sir."

"You didn't turn tail and run, though. Right?"

"No, Sir. We fought as long as we could. When our ship suffered its critical damage, we were saved by the USS Defiant who fought off the remaining ships. From there, we returned here. During our return, we made all the repairs we could."

"And why were YOU not on the bridge, Carstairs?"

"Captain Jackson sent me down to Deck Three to repair a critical power relay that was damaged during the attack."

"During the attack? You left the bridge?"

"Under orders," Carstairs replies.

"You're on a starship, Carstairs. You are a member of the bridge crew. You should be able to fix or bypass anything from that bridge. Why were you not on the bridge?"

"Repairs, Sir," he repeats. "I was under orders."

"And, unfortunately, Captain Jackson was killed in the said attack. As well as everyone else on the bridge. There is nobody here to back up your claim."

"Admiral Jellico," Carstairs says with a tinge of anger, "do you suspect me of something?"

"I just find it odd that YOU are the last remaining bridge crew member. Bottom of the totem pole. An officer that has taken a very slow climb up in the ranks. You have been in Starfleet for ten years, and you are only slightly above ensign."

"Sir, if you had any doubts about my performance, then why did you promote me as you did?"

"Because it was within the regulations. Because I don't have time to promote a commander on any one of a few thousand ships out there to captain over here. We have a war to fight. You taking this position was a convenient solution. If I find a suitable candidate, you'll be immediately replaced."

"You will have my very best performance," Carstairs replies.

"Damn right I will. Being captain is far far harder than just tilting the ship in the right direction. I suggest you put together a new senior staff. First officer, Helm, Ops, Sciences. If you do it right, you can put together a staff that can compensate for your lack of experience."

Admiral Jellico walks towards the door, but stops for a second. "Just remember how lucky you got. That shot could've destroyed your whole ship. Next time, the funeral might be for the whole crew."

The door slides shut automatically. Carstairs stands for a long moment as he thinks about what's been said.

Five days later, all necessary repairs have been made to the ship. The crew boards the vessel and prepares to disembark. Repair crews have vacated back to the starbase. Some additional crew has been added to replace the lost members.

Carstairs watched the bridge module being set into place two days ago. Several connections had to be made to the rest of the ship before it was ready to go. It looked kind of like an old UFO docking at the mothership.

And, now, it's time for the USS Cambridge to set out into space again. The ship has been forever changed in the past week. And some things still haunt the crew. Some of the crew in question are worried about their future with this untested captain.

Carstairs stands in front of the Captain's Chair and looks at the viewscreen. "It looks smaller from back here," he notes. "Clear all moorings. Seal all hatches. Tuck your head between your knees. Helm, take us out. One quarter impulse."

"Aye... Captain..." a young Bolian woman replies.

"Something wrong?" Carstairs asks.

"Tuck your head between your knees?"

"It's an old Earth joke," he answers. He steps back and sits down while quietly finishing "and kiss your ass goodbye."

Ensign Z'ntara, at the helm, turns back to the front and shakes her head around in worry. "Where's my escape pod?" she asks very quietly.

"Once we're clear of the starbase, set a course for Bajor. Warp 5."

-End Two


End file.
